


Apropos To Nothing

by nagi_schwarz



Series: The Only Boy In The Room [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchester men keep showing up on Amanda's doorstep apropos to nothing. Set between Parts 2 and 3 of The Only Boy In The Room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apropos To Nothing

Someone was knocking on the door. Loudly. And that someone was shouting drunkenly.

Amanda curled her fingers around the hilt of her knife and slid out of bed. On the way to the front door she scooped up her pistol, flipped off the safety.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"You psycho bitch, you put him up to this, didn't you?"

Amanda pulled up short. Was that John Winchester? She hadn't seen hide nor hair of that man since a lorelei hunt up in Minnesota nigh on six years ago, and she was pretty sure their distance was by mutual agreement.

"Put who up to what, John? You keep making that noise and the cops are going to come for you, and I'm really good at faking crocodile tears. Big scary you, tiny ol' me?  You'll be in the clink for a couple of days at least." She sounded precisely as confident as she felt.

John sounded furious and hurt and a bunch of other things Amanda couldn’t quite identify beyond yelling. "My baby boy - he left his family because of you."

Amanda frowned. She clicked the safety back on the gun and set it aside, but she kept the knife in hand when she pulled open the front door.

John was sloppy drunk, face mottled from crying, and a giant black truck was parked askew half a foot off the curb. He'd driven that thing in his condition? That man was liable to get himself killed.

Amanda fisted his collar and dragged him into the house, kicked the door shut. She hauled him, stumbling and cussing, into the kitchen and shoved him into one of the chairs at the dining table.

"What the hell are you saying? Speak up."

John swiped a hand over his face. His breath was rank with whiskey. "Sam up and walked out on us. Said he was going to Stanford. Wanted to be a lawyer. Got a scholarship. Didn't tell his family till his bag was packed and he had one foot out the door."

Amanda's chest tightened. For all John's faults - stubbornness, a little sexism, pride, obsession - he loved his boys. And every hunter knew the story of how Sam almost died in a fire as an infant. For all that Dean had taken after his father, obedient and cocky and eager to be a hunter, Sam was the protected one, the loved one. For him to run away was a massive betrayal.

But Amanda had heard the wistfulness in his voice at the end of his dance videos, how he wanted a normal life, one that wasn't ringed with salt and paranoid fear.

"Sounds like a smart boy, your Sam, to get a scholarship."

John must have been especially drunk, because when he jabbed an accusing finger at her, he was actually pointing at her husband's framed black belt certificate on the wall behind her. "You put him up to this, didn't you? Told him to walk away from his family and his responsibility as a hunter."

"How? I haven't seen Sam in person since he was twelve."

"It was that book. Always kept it with him. Always reading it. Always talked about you, my Sammy. Had a crush. And now he's living out here. An' he's legal. You turn my son into a kept boy, you wh --"

Amanda slammed the knife into the table, hilt first. "Do not finish that sentence, John Eric Winchester. You're not the only one who's lost a spouse. How dare you imply I'd disrespect Jonathan's memory like that? If I ever said anything similar about Mary --"

John roared and lunged at her.

She sidestepped, caught his wrist, flipped him to the floor in a single, fluid movement.

He landed with a grunt, winded.

"I had nothing to do with your boy leaving home," Amanda said, leaning down to speak softly. "If he made that choice, he made it on his own. Maybe he ended up here because I inspired him, but I never said a word about leaving hunting behind."

John wheezed, levered himself up onto his elbows. "But you --"

"Still hunt, John. This house, my dance studio, those keep me funded to hunt, and it's hard work, but I'm still a hunter at heart. I'd never tell Sam to walk away from it, because I can't."  Amanda stepped back, let him haul himself to his feet. "Now, what is it you really want? For me to keep an eye on him while he's here?"

John blinked at her blearily. "You really didn't say anything to Sammy?"

"Really," Amanda said, and it was the truth. He'd never told her about coming to college in Palo Alto. She reached out to steady John when he tried to get a grip on the counter, but he swatted her aside.

"Then if you didn't do this, who did?"

"He did."

John huffed, the sound half like laughter, half like weeping. "Then he chose, of his own free will, to walk away."

"Maybe he'll come back when he's done," Amanda offered, but she doubted it.

"I told him if he went out that door, don't you ever come back." John hiccupped, and oh hell, he was sobbing. "And he went out that door."

Amanda was too small to manhandle any full-grown Winchester man in a non-combat fashion, especially one who was too drunk to carry his own weight. She staggered when John slung an arm around her shoulders, buried his face in her collarbone, and let out a wail.

Hell. She never knew what to do when a man was crying, unless he was broken and bleeding.

"How's about you sleep on the couch, and in the morning we talk about this like mature adults?" she asked.

John kept sobbing. Men like the Winchesters didn’t cry, not like this, not even Sam. John must have been a hundred miles past his breaking point to cry like this.

"Okay," Amanda said. "Couch it is." Together, like a hunch-backed three-legged troll, they stumbled over to the couch. John curled up on his side, still hiccupping, and Amanda handed him a pillow. Then she fetched an afghan from the linen closet in the hall and covered him.

She went back to her room and slept, knife in hand, gun in easy reach.

The next morning, John Winchester and his giant black truck were gone. Amanda might have chalked it up to a very bizarre hallucination, except when she was at the dance studio that night for beginners' belly dance, the girls weren't stretching out and warming up like they were supposed to while Amanda processed paperwork for new students.

She stepped out of the back office, expecting to see a dozen women doing toe bounces in neat rows facing the mirror. Instead, she saw a dozen women huddled near the far wall like cornered sheep.

"What's wrong?" Amanda asked. The music was working just fine.

"There's a guy out there," Laura said. "He was watching us. Kinda creeped us out."

Amanda sighed. Sometimes the local teenage and college boys liked to come ogle her dancers, especially on the nights when there was no self-defense class. Shawn was off on a hunt, so his classes were cancelled this week. She reached for the willow switch she kept by the stereo.

"Let me go take care of this."

Sure enough, a young man was loitering outside the main window. He wore a leather jacket and worn blue jeans, old boots. His dark blond hair was military short, and judging by his bow-legged stance he was either a cowboy or an American Kenpo fighter. Maybe he was looking for a martial arts class? If he made her girls feel uncomfortable, he wasn't welcome.

Amanda pushed open the door. "Can I help you with something?"

He turned and flashed her a cocky grin. "Hey, Widow Quince. Just the woman I was looking for."

He called her Widow Quince. He was a hunter, and come to think of it, he looked familiar. Amanda narrowed her eyes, studied him intently. He spread his hands wide, settled back on his heels and invited the scrutiny with the kind of self-assurance that usually made Amanda want to punch a man in the face. He was handsome, young, and probably lucky he was a hunter, because with a mouth as pretty as his he likely hadn't had an easy time of it growing up.

Amanda knew that jacket. Knew those green eyes. If she imagined him younger, shorter, with lighter hair and more obvious freckles --

"Dean Winchester. I kinda thought you boys had deliberately lost my number, and then I get two of you in twenty-four hours."

The cocky grin slid off his face. "You've seen Sammy?" Desperation hung in the shadowy corners of his voice.

"Not Sam," Amanda said.

"Dad? Was here? What did he say?"

"He cussed me out for brainwashing a kid I haven't seen in six years and then passed out drunk on my couch," Amanda said. "He was gone when I woke up." She figured it was best for everyone if she left out the crying part.

"Have you seen Sam?" Dean asked.

"Contrary to popular belief, this is a legitimate business, not Palo Alto hunter central, so no, I haven't. Stanford's that way, in case you're curious." Amanda pointed.

Dean swallowed hard, and Amanda realized he had deep bruises around his eyes, that his face was pale with exhaustion. "I just need to know he's safe."

"Well, if you want to know that, you know where to find him," Amanda said.

Dean bit his lip, glanced down the street in the direction of campus.

"And when you're done, you can drop a couple of shots of hunter's helper and sleep on my couch, free of charge." Amanda kept her tone gentle but neutral; Winchester men didn't like pity.

Dean jammed his hands into his pockets but didn't say anything.

"Now get out of here. You're making my girls nervous," Amanda said.

Dean jumped.  "But I --"

Amanda pointed toward campus. "Get."

Dean sighed, nodded, and slunk down the sidewalk. Amanda watched him go to make sure he didn't double back, then returned to her students.

"He's gone. If he comes back, let me know."

"Is he dangerous?" Rosie asked.

Amanda shook her head. "Just a kid who sometimes has more appreciation for the female form than sense."

 

***

The wonderful thing about working with college students was that they were determined, self-motivated, and for the most part mature.

Which was why Amanda was completely unprepared for the chorus of, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” emanating from her studio when she returned from a water run at the corner store. She burst through the back doors and, as an afterthought, scooped up her fighting clubs. Her advanced self-defense class had formed a ring, high school style, around two combatants.

Judging by the rest of the din, there weren’t going to be only two for long.

“Come on, Shelly, give him what he’s got coming!”

“Sexist pig!”

“We’ll back you up, sister.”

Shelly was circling, hands up in a standard kenpo guard, one had high to check punches, one low to check kicks. Dean had his hands up in a gesture of surrender, eyes wide and panicked. He was John Winchester’s son; his job was to hunt _things_ and save _people_. Also he was probably just sexist enough to refuse to hit a girl on principle, which would work in Shelly’s favor till she hit him hard enough.

Amanda pushed her way through the circle. “Break it up!”

The other girls scattered. Shelly jumped, startled, and wheeled around with a strike. Amanda deflected it easily, and then Shelly recognized her, drew back.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Amanda took a deep breath and counted to ten. “This is a self-defense class. Circling one defenseless man for a schoolyard brawl is the antithesis of what we teach here. What’s going on?”

Shelly jabbed a finger at Dean. “He was standing outside the window ogling us. We all felt really uncomfortable.”

“So you dragged him in here to beat him to death?” Amanda asked.

“I was trying to apologize,” Dean began, but flinched back and fell silent when the collective glares of all the students fell on him.

Amanda forced herself to take another deep breath. She was pretty sure she knew what had happened - Dean had stopped by to say hello, spotted the pretty coeds, decided to appreciate a bit more than was probably appropriate, and the girls, already tense and wound-up for self-defense class, and over-reacted. For a hunter, Dean was kind of terrible at going unnoticed whenever pretty ladies were involved.

“Okay. I think a whole lot of misunderstanding happened here tonight. Dean, were you staring at the ladies improperly?” Amanda narrowed her eyes at him.

“I was appreciating,” he said.

Some of the girls opened their mouths to protest, and Amanda silenced them.

“I apologize if it made you feel uncomfortable,” Dean went on, and he sounded sincere. “Also, I was looking for Widow Quince, but since she’s so short it was kinda hard to tell if she was in the mix or not.”

“Oh,” Shelly said. “Still, you shouldn’t stand outside and stare. It’s creepy.”

“I’ll remember that,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry I tried to beat you up,” Shelly said.

Dean refrained from making a comment about how she couldn’t actually beat him up, and instead inclined his head with an air of humility that was unexpected. “Thank you.”

“From now on, Dean, if you want to come by, you can come in the back entrance and wait in my office,” Amanda said.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“It may seem unfair, but this place is a safe-haven for my students. I realize you’re not actually a pervert or a predator, but this will be easier for everyone,” Amanda said firmly.

Dean nodded. “Okay. I get it.”

“Now, go wait in my office, and we can talk in a few minutes. Let me get class started.”

Dean nodded and dodged around the crowd of girls, hands up in a gesture of surrender. Amanda sighed and let the tension drain out of her body.

“He’s really one of your friends?” Shelly asked.

“Yes. He’s well-meaning but a little misguided about women sometimes.”

Shelly wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t his mother teach him not to stare?”

“His mother died when he was very young,” Amanda said softly.

“Oh.”

“Enough about him. You ladies get stretched out, and then I want you to talk about the ways in which your response to his presence were appropriate, inappropriate, and could have been improved. Tina, you’re the discussion leader.” Amanda set her clubs down and nodded for Tina, one of her most advanced students, to take over, and then she headed back into the office.

Dean was sprawled in her chair, boots up on the desk, and staring at the pictures she had tacked on the cork board above her desk.

“I really didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Dean said.

“I know.” Amanda smiled gently. “Give them time to cool down. And maybe try to be a bit more subtle when you check a girl out. It’s not a compliment for every girl. These girls are here not to be picked up but because they want to feel safer in a world that’s generally unsafe for them.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “I thought Palo Alto was pretty safe.”

“I didn’t mean this city in particular,” Amanda said.

“Then what did you mean?”

Amanda searched his expression, and she was surprised to see sincerity in his green eyes. “When was the last time you heard about a rapist on the news and were afraid?”

Dean turned his gaze ceilingward while he searched his memory. “Never. But I’m a hunter.”

“How many men do you know, who aren’t hunters, would be afraid of being attacked by a rapist if one was on the loose?”

Dean said cautiously, “None.”

Amanda waited, and then Dean nodded.

“Okay. I get what you’re saying.”

“Also, as you pointed out, you’re a hunter. Surely you should be able to observe a group of people without getting caught,” Amanda said.

“Have you heard from Sammy?”

“He doesn’t like being called that, and also, no.”

Dean pressed his lips into a thin line, looked away.

“I’m not going to check up on him for you. If you want to see him, you can.”

Dean sighed. “Right. I get it. You don’t want to interfere, don’t want my dad any madder at you than he is.”

“I don’t see why he’s mad at me at all,” Amanda said tartly. “It’s not like I told Sam to leave the life and go to college.”

“You went to college.”

“And, as I told your father, I’m still in the life.” Amanda sat down on the edge of the desk. “Sam’s your little brother. You’re worried about him. I get it. But I can’t get involved, despite you Winchesters’ determination that I be in the middle of it all. Have you called him?”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“You won’t know till you try,” Amanda said gently.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “I - Dad said. Sammy can’t come back. He’s not one of us anymore.”

John Winchester probably didn’t believe that for one minute, but his son, the one he’d raised to be a loyal and obedient soldier, probably didn’t know that.

“Tell you what.” Amanda reached into her pocket. “Here’s the spare key to my place. You want to swing by and visit me - and do other things while I’m teaching my classes - well, there’s nothing to stop two hunters from putting their heads together on a case, right?”

Dean accepted the key hesitantly, like he’d never been given a key to a house before. Amanda suspected he hadn’t, not by a woman. “Okay. Sounds good. After all, if Pastor Jim doesn’t know something, you do, right?”  The only other key on his key-ring was probably for that shiny black Impala of his.

“Right,” Amanda said. “Now - go. There’s some pie in my refrigerator. Asian pie - baby coconut. Give it a whirl. I have a class to teach.”

She didn’t see Dean after class that night, or for months after. And she didn’t see him when he did come to Palo Alto to check on Sam around Halloween, but she knew he had been there, because someone had eaten all her buko pie.

***

Amanda counted under her breath. “Five, six, seven, eight, lift, two, lift, four, shimmy, shimmy, turn-and-stop -- argh!” She abandoned her choreography and crossed the room to the stereo, started the song over. Fusion Fest was in four weeks, and she had to have both a performance routine and a teaching routine ready. Why had she agreed to teach a workshop again?

The initial beats of the song were deceptively slow, and to switch from one tempo to another with essentially no warning was tricky.

But she closed her eyes, let the music flow over her, and began to move. The synchronicity of dancing had only one possible parallel, and that was hunting, that stunning combination of knowledge, physical precision, and the adrenaline rush of pressure. And then she felt it, the tingle between her shoulder blades that meant someone was watching. Usually it was a couple of college students or teenagers, distracted by the sight of a woman in a crop top and a flowy skirt, shimmying like mad to an unheard beat, so she opened her eyes and glanced in one of the studio mirrors.

She couldn’t see anyone.

That was a bad sign. It was easy to cross the floor with an improvised traveling step, grab her scimitar and make like she was dancing with it. As she moved, she kept an eye on the mirror, but still there was no one, but she could still feel someone watching.

When the song ended, she hurried over to the stereo to shut off the music. When she turned around, John Winchester was standing at the door, expression rueful. He looked sober this time.

Amanda went and unlocked the door but didn’t let go of her scimitar.

“As soon as you picked up that sword I knew I was made,” he said.

“You could have knocked, you know. What is it with you Winchesters and creepy staring?” Amanda looked up at John. All the Winchester men were tall, and Amanda could only imagine having to look _up_ at little Sam Winchester if she ever saw him again.

“We Winchesters?” John echoed.

“Yeah. Dean came by and stared at some of my students. Unfortunately for him, they were not the dancers but the fighters,” Amanda said.

John huffed. “That kid. I’m not sure where I went wrong. I raised my boys to respect women.” Then he raised his eyebrows. “He’s been by here?”

Amanda shrugged, nonchalant. “Sometimes he has a question about a case. I help him out if Jim or Bobby don’t have the answer. You looking for some research assistance?”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Actually, I came to apologize. About the way I was before. I’m sorry.”

Amanda’s grip on her scimitar loosened. “Oh. I -- thank you.” She paused, fumbled for what came next. The last time she and John had had a half-civil conversation, it had been when Jim Murphy was introducing them. “Listen, I’m about done here --”

“You dance beautifully,” John said.

Amanda blinked, shocked. John looked like he wanted to take the words back.

“I didn’t know people could move like that,” John went on.

“Well, they can, if they learn.” Amanda would never mention that Sam had been learning how for years, and he was damn good at it. “Anyway, like I said, I’m about done here. You want to get a bite to eat?”

“No, but thanks, I’m not really --”  John’s stomach growled. He flushed bright red.

Amanda took a deep breath. “How about we call a truce?”

“Truce?”

“I won’t try to boss you around, you won’t try to boss me around. We’re not on a hunt. We’re just -- two friends. Who are going to share a meal. How about it?” Calling themselves friends was something of a stretch, but Jim was a good judge of character, and Amanda knew, beneath the gruff exterior, John was a good man. Maybe not nice or particularly sensitive, but good.

John inclined his head in acknowledgment. “That would be nice. So, what joints are good around here?”

Amanda laughed. “Joints? Not in my town, Winchester. I’m cooking tonight. You like Chinese?”

“Sure.”

***

“Nice place you got here,” John said. “I was a little too -- distracted to appreciate it the first time.”

“Thanks,” Amanda said. “I decorated it myself. Now come on - we have twenty minutes.” She bustled into the bedroom to change into comfortable sweats and a t-shirt, then returned to the kitchen where John was hovering nervously beside the refrigerator.

“Twenty minutes? Why?”

Amanda rooted around in a drawer for her measuring cups. Then she tugged a bag of rice out of one cupboard and her rice cooker out of another. “Because that’s how long it takes for the rice to cook.” She measured out one and a half cups of rice, three cups of water, just how her mother taught her. “Open the fridge. I have mushrooms, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, carrots, broccoli, and red peppers. Chop them all.”

John stared at her.

“Come on, you’re  a hunter. I know you know how to use a knife.” Amanda grinned. “Now, chop chop!” She was pleased at her own pun.

John obeyed hesitantly, and Amanda had the sudden notion that it might have been a long time since he was in a kitchen cooking a meal like this, and she missed Jonathan fiercely.

“Why do you have a rice cooker?” John asked. “Shouldn’t you just be able to...boil rice in a pot?”

“I do know how to cook rice in a pot, but if I want to keep my Asian card, I’d better have a rice cooker.” Amanda plugged in the rice cooker and flipped the switch, then rooted around in another cupboard for her rice wine and spices. Making sauce from scratch was kind of a pain, but it would be worth it in the end. John would never know what hit him.

“Asian card?” John looked amused but comfortable wielding a knife.

“There’s a man card, isn’t there?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And there is an Asian card.” Amanda tugged some pork out of the fridge and started slicing. Before she’d gotten married, she’d disliked cooking for herself, because cooking for one was depressing. Cooking for Jonathan had been an ego boost and a half because the man had had the metabolism of a hummingbird and he always ate lots and lots of whatever she cooked, no matter how dubious its quality. Now she liked cooking because she liked tasty food, and if she made it herself, that was cheaper than buying it. Besides, when she was on the road for a hunt, home-cooked food was rare.

“I’ll remember that,” John said. “What are we making?”

“Honey pork stir fry.” Amanda smiled. “Trust me. You’ll love it. It won’t taste anything like the stuff you get from take-out, though.”

“Dean loves Chinese take-out,” John said. “But back home, in Lawrence, there was this one restaurant run by a couple from Hong Kong. I ate there whenever I could as a kid. I’m pretty sure food isn’t that good in China.”

“Go to China someday and find out.”

“You ever been?”

“To China?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever been to England?”

“No. Why?”

“Winchester’s an English name is all,” Amanda said.

John took a deep breath. “Right. Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. Sometimes I get a little aggressive about things.” Amanda smiled, apologetic. “But I have been to China, actually. Not because my parents are Chinese - they’re not - but because my dad used to work over there. And the food there is pretty good. So is the food in Hong Kong.”

“I’ve only ever been to Viet Nam,” Jon said quietly. “Maybe one day I’ll go to Hong Kong on a hunt. Who knows?”

“Ghosts over there have their own rules,” Amanda said. “Always carry a calabash.”

“A what?”

“The little gourd thing the drunk monk always carries in kung fu movies.” Amanda shaped a vaguely pointy hourglass shape in the air.

“Ah. I didn’t realize they had a name.”

“Everything has a name.” Amanda turned away and tugged on an apron before she dug a wok out of another cupboard. The meat and sauce had to be cooked first to let the flavor soak in, and then they’d add the vegetables. She fired up a burner and beckoned John close. “Watch. This is how it’s done.”

“What’s done?”

“Making good Chinese food.”

“I thought you said your parents weren’t Chinese.”

“My mom went to cooking school in China.” Amanda held up the bottle of rice wine. “If you’re going to cook it in oil, use sesame oil. But if you love your arteries and want to give your food an authentic kick, this is the stuff.” She poured some into the wok.

“Aren’t you going to measure it?” John asked.

“Pffft. Measuring’s for beginners. Now, while the meat is cooking, we should set the table.”

John raised his eyebrows but followed her across the kitchen to the china cabinet. “Set the table? Amanda, I don’t mean this to be a fancy affair --”

“A twenty-minute stir-fry is not a fancy affair,” Amanda said breezily. “But since we’re having a home-cooked meal we should do it like civilized people. Now my mama always told me forks go on the left, knives and spoons go on the right. But if you can use chopsticks --”

“Chopsticks are fine,” John said.

“Excellent! Now, the vegetables probably need to go in the wok, so you do that while I pick some chopsticks, and when the rice is done the stir-fry will be done, and you can tell me embarrassing stories about Dean.”

***

Amanda was pretty confident John Winchester would never forget her honey pork stir fry, but her ego didn’t matter. When she was up to her elbows in soapy water, listening to John recall the tale of Dean the first time he was caught making out in a car with a girl, all that mattered was seeing one Winchester man smile.

John’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he waved the dish-towel to emphasize his point. “So there I am, watching my own Impala rocking like an earthquake, and I’m furious, but I don’t know what to do, so Caleb, he reaches into the glove box and comes up with one of those detachable police siren-lights, and he even has a bullhorn.”

“You didn’t,” Amanda said.

John nodded. “We cut the lights and the engine and just coast up right behind the car in neutral. Caleb pops the light on the dashboard, finger on the button, and gives me the bullhorn. We count to three, and BAM! I’ve never seen two heads pop up that fast, and I’ve shot at gophers before.”

Amanda fell against the counter laughing.

“The girl looked about ready to have a heart attack, and Dean - he didn’t know whether to pull his pants up or grab a weapon.” John wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “As soon as he saw it was us, he turned white as a sheet, so I sent him on home ahead of me and said I’d talk to him later. I had to get him out of there as soon as possible, because Caleb was fit to burst, and if we’d laughed right then and there, he couldn’t have taken it. But as soon as he was gone, we laughed so hard we nearly pissed ourselves.”

Amanda reached up to wipe tears off her face and ended up getting soap suds in her hair, but she didn’t care.

“And when I got home, all the lights were out and it was suspiciously quiet, but Sammy was waiting in the doorway wearing this very serious expression, and he told me he thought Dean had been cursed. Came home pale like he’d seen a ghost, Sam said, and he didn’t use the expression lightly. He looked at me, all disapproving, and asked how the hunt went, and I --”  The laughter faded from John’s eyes. “Sam. Always so sure I was putting Dean in danger when Dean was putting himself in danger to protect Sam.”

Amanda sobered. “John --”

“I did this to him. To us. Drove him away. I should’ve just let him do his thing. He’d stick with us, right? I mean, look at you.” John gestured at her with the dish towel. “All college educated and professional, but you’re still in the game.”

“By choice,” Amanda said softly. “And I didn’t start out in the game. Jonathan came from a hunting family. I learned with him so we could both keep our family safe. I just never ended up having any more family than him.”

“Sammy always had a choice.”

“Maybe he felt like he didn’t, so he gave himself one.”

“Yeah. Stanford. Full ride.” John shook his head. Hurt mixed with pride shone on his face. “I always knew that kid was more Mary than me. Too smart for his own good. Dean’s a Winchester, through and through. Mechanics. Good with our hands. He’s street-smart, don’t get me wrong, and I’ve caught him with his nose in a book or two, but he’s no Sam.”

"From what little contact I've had with your sons in person," Amanda said cautiously, "they're both wonderful young men. Don't sell either of them short."

John ducked his head. "I try not to. Dammit, I try. But this life -- it brings out the worst in me. And Sam. But the best in Dean."

"Yeah. It brings out both in me," Amanda said. She smiled ruefully. "Now c'mon, you're being derelict in your duty, soldier. These dishes won't dry themselves."

"You have a dishwasher," John pointed out, but he resumed with the dish towel anyway. Then he paused. "Amanda. You have --" He gestured vaguely. "In your hair."

She paused. "What?"

"Soap suds," John said.

What happened next was right out of a romantic comedy. She reached up to try to brush the soap out. She got bubbles on her face. He reached out to swipe his thumb over the tip of her nose, and then they were kissing.

John Winchester tasted like irish coffee and smelled like gunpowder and leather. He was a couple of days unshaven and rough, and his hand cupping the back of her neck was too warm.

She was kissing John Winchester.

Amanda wrenched herself backward. "John! Whoa! What --?"

He scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide. "Amanda. I'm sorry. I don't know --"

"It's okay," Amanda said. "Actually, no, it’s not really, but...I'm not angry. And I get it."

John sank back against the counter, arms wrapped around himself. "You do?"

"You, me, home cooked meal, doing the dishes. Laughing. Domesticity." Amanda shook her head. "It felt familiar. Like something we both miss. And we got a little carried away."

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Just -- I should go." John set down the towel and started to gather up his jacket and keys.

"No," Amanda said. "You don't have to. Really. Just -- how about you go get your weapons out of the truck? We can have a cleaning party. That's very non-domestic. We can even put on some awesome music and rock out like teenagers. You like Zep, right?"

John nodded slowly. "Okay. We can do that."

As it turned out, listening to Houses of the Holy and tossing solvent and oil back and forth was actually kind of fun. They traded hunting stories - light ones, salt-and-burns, weird ghosts, poltergeists who manifested in strange ways. John field-stripped his weapons with all the practiced ease of a life-long soldier. He didn't even have to think about it; he could disassemble a gun as easy as buttoning up a shirt.

"Are you still a lawyer?" John asked.

Amanda frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You run that studio, and you, you know, dance. But do you still practice?"

"Not for money," Amanda said. She shrugged one shoulder. "But it's kinda like being a hunter. Being a lawyer is for life."

John huffed. "For life. Or death."

"You in legal trouble or something?" Amanda asked.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Besides the usual hunter tricks, I mean."

He shook his head. "No, but since you're a lawyer, you have to keep a secret if someone tells you, right?"

"If they're my client," Amanda said. She wasn't sure she liked where this was going.

John hesitated.

"I'm a hunter and a lawyer. Not a priest. You've got Jim for that."

John's hands on his pearl-handled Colt stilled.

Amanda took a deep breath. "Look, you and I don't run in the same circles much, and even then, when we do cross paths, we're barely civil. You get something you want to get off your chest, I'll keep your confidence. You're not my client, and I'm not your lawyer, but I am damn good at keeping my mouth shut."

"The last time I came to see you -- afterwards I busted out pretty quickly." John didn't look at her, resumed cleaning his gun.

"You Winchester men are as stubborn as you are proud. No living soul will ever hear it from me, but you cried like a little girl that night." Amanda cracked a grin, tried to lighten the mood.

"I cried the night I lost Mary, too," John said softly. "No, I left because I got a call. From a woman in Wisconsin. Helped her out on a hunt a dozen or so years back."

"She needed more help?"

"I have a son."

Amanda's hands stilled on her Taurus. "Besides the two I already know?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Name's Adam. He's twelve. Good kid. Kinda looks like me." He snapped the slide back into place, dry-fired the gun a few times to check the action on it. "She called that morning, so I took off. Hit the road. Drove all day and all night. Met the kid."

"Wow." Amanda felt her throat tighten. She and Jonathan never had the chance to have children. She'd always wanted at least one, a little boy with Jonathan's smile.

"I'm a bastard, ruining Mary's memory like that, but the woman was grateful, and I was weak." John shook his head and sat back.

"John, no, don't think that --"

"Adam is the son Mary would have wanted, normal and smart and happy, not sleeping with a knife under his pillow or -- or painting salt lines on his dorm windows when his roommate is out on a date."  John's voice caught in his throat.

Amanda remembered Dean, sixteen and lanky, curled on Pastor Jim's couch with one hand tucked under his cheek, the other half-under the pillow and clutching a hunting knife. She remembered, Sam, listening intently when she told him about how she'd put protection on her house after Jonathan's death, laying a line of salt, taping over it, painting the tape.

She sighed. "Don't beat yourself up. Dean and Sam are good boys, and you raised them well. Maybe you didn't want the hunting life for them, maybe you made some bad decisions, but don't all parents? I know mine did. You're allowed to move on even if you keep fighting in her memory. She'd want you to be happy, wouldn't she? And I bet Sam would love being a big brother."

John lifted his head and caught her gaze, dark eyes endless. "But I could have given them a real home, right? I mean - you said Jonathan grew up hunting, that it was his family. His entire family, right? Both parents?"

Amanda nodded. "Yeah. We met in college. He was as chem major. Made for great improvised explosives and munitions in the field. And yes, he had a stable home growing up. No matter how many hunts they went on, they had somewhere to go when it was done. Somewhere safe and, for the most part, happy."

John buried his face in his hands. "I could have done better by my boys. Should have."

"You did the best you could, and they're both smart, brave young men. Strong. Stubborn." Amanda smiled. "Stop kicking yourself. And it you feel the need to redeem yourself, well, you have this new boy. Do right by him.”

“Adam,” John said. “Right. I think I’ll take him to a baseball game for his birthday. That’s the sort of thing boys like, right?”

Amanda laughed. “The sort of things I can peddle in that boys like aren’t really suitable for thirteen-year-olds.”

It was John’s turn to laugh. “You’re a handful. How did Jonathan cope?”

Amanda’s expression sobered. “We fought some, but...he kept me grounded. He was level-headed, patient. Reasonable.”

All the things John wasn’t when he was on a hunt. “The best men always get the worst end.” He sighed.

A moment too late, Amanda realized he’d misunderstood her. “As it turns out, reason and patience won’t save a man from a drunk driver.”

John ducked his head. “This life - sometimes it makes me forget that the supernatural isn’t the only evil in the world. Everything else seems pale in comparison.” Then he lifted his head sharply. “Not that your husband’s death --”

“I know what you mean.” Amanda pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. “Anyways, weapons are clean. We’re both fed. And...truce. Right? You and me? For hunting’s sake, at the very least.”

“For hunting’s sake,” John said. They packed up their weapons and cleaning gear, and  Amanda walked John to the front door.

“I’ll extend the same invitation to you as I gave to your son. If you ever want to swing through town, check on your youngest, I’ve got a comfy couch, and an even comfier guest bedroom.”

“Thanks,” John said.

She could tell by the way his cheeks reddened that he didn’t come by that word easily.

“Anything for a fellow warrior of light.” Amanda smiled and pushed him toward his car. “Now go. Check the dorms. Freshmen are all kept in the same dorms. He’ll be easy to find.”

“You’re a strange one, Amanda Quince,” John said. He looked her up and down, admiring and mystified all in one.

“And you’re a stubborn one, John Winchester, but I won’t let that get in the way of our truce.” Amanda winked. “Good night.” And she closed the door.

Maybe one day Winchester men would stop appearing on her doorstep apropos to nothing. 


End file.
